


sealed with wax/ sealed with a kiss

by rosewritingprose



Category: Classicaloid (Anime)
Genre: Bądarzewska is the sun, F/F, Gals being pals, Kanae's dad was supposed to be the evil king, Tchaikovsky is Icarus, a LOT of temperature/ weather imagery, and alliteration, and then I got super lazy and never wrote that, anyway, i actually had a very different ending planned, in fact he's never mentioned, nsfw warning: I mention Liszt has boobs, sad lack of astronomy metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 19:12:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12918408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewritingprose/pseuds/rosewritingprose
Summary: To shed her shackles and soar into the light was what consumed the prisoner's dreams, but reality wasn't as simple. Goddesses, consequences, and her own folly could complicate reality.Icarus AU.





	sealed with wax/ sealed with a kiss

**Author's Note:**

> should you be able to get past my disgustingly convoluted/ facetious writing style, I expect/ hope you'll enjoy reading about these two dorks falling for each other.

The room had only one window in it, and through it came Tchaikovsky's two favorite things in the world. 

Once upon a time, her tastes hadn't been so simple. Once upon a time she'd loved music. Singing, dancing, composing, playing the instruments, all of it. Once upon a time she wasn't stuck in a little room with only one window. 

The scent of the sea wafted into it every morning. It was palpably salty, so thick that if she closed her eyes, she could pretend to feel the mist hitting her face as she imagined herself in front of the vast ocean. The best way to describe the fragrance was far-away-from-here. 

The second thing that glided into the room was the sunlight. And it really did glide. It swept through the flimsy cloth of the curtains and lit up her face, Bach's face. It hung off the edges of his desk, seemingly setting his assorted scraps of metal ablaze. When the blonde girl was enveloped in sunlight, she felt safe from the darkness. 

Should the reader be curious, Bach kept assorted scraps of metal at his desk because he tinkered with them day and night. Tchaiko was long past the sense of irritation she had initially felt upon hearing the unmelodious clanging noises they made. It was just another part of her everyday life. 

A guard pushed a plate of food through the slit beneath the door, not bothering to include silverware. Breakfast, she supposed. It did not look appetizing. It was a brown sort of blob. Mushy. It did not smell appetizing either. Her nose wrinkled angrily. She couldn't smell the sea anymore. The foul food could go uneaten for all she cared. She didn't want it. 

Bach was staring at her. Why was that old man staring at her? It dawned on her a moment too late that her stomach was growling. Perhaps she should eat the goop. 

Almost psychically, he picked up on her internal struggle. "Sostenuto," he argued, his voice low and raspy as usual. Tchaikovsky loved so much about that simple statement. She loved how his husky voice had an edge that was almost like a growl, yet somehow still conveyed tenderness.

She loved how he managed to turn a musical term into an argument in itself. Sostenuto. Sustained. While usually meant to indicate the rhythm decelerating, she connected the dots to see beyond that. Food sustains. He was asking her to keep up her strength.

She loved understanding. 

Free from her usual ferocity, her spunk, her frenzied opposition to command (she was always free of these around Bach, he was the paternal figure she'd fiercely latched onto), she agreed. 

Tentatively she dug her fingers into her breakfast. Tchaiko wasn't the sort to be easily disgusted by things. She'd spent a large portion of her childhood playing in the mud, catching worms and digging up mushrooms. She liked fishing and wrestling. This, however, was difficult to do. Because this, unlike everything else, was beneath her. 

"Accompagnato."

To accompany: like when the player of the lyre follows the poet or when suddenly Bach is also bringing a fistful of food up to his mouth. 

He was, supposedly, a man of class. Others saw him as sophisticated and elegant and refined. In truth he was aloof and absentminded and maddening. Tchaiko loved experiencing his messy side he hid from the world, in addition to understanding his speech and mannerisms. She smiled at the sight of crumbs (were they crumbs?) on his chin. 

While up until then everything he had done had been predictable, the young girl didn't expect him to continue talking. What was there to talk about? Usually, the answer to that question was nothing. They'd been trapped in the tower for months. They'd exhausted conversation itself. They rarely spoke. 

"What?" She asked. She hadn't been paying attention. She mentally slapped herself. 

"Trionfale." He repeated. Triumphant.

"What has been the victory?" She asked, confused. Were they to be released? Ah, if only. 

"Volante." He replied.

Tchaiko frowned. Fast? That made no sense. A fast victory? Intuitively, her eyes darted around the room as she thought. It was likely that her subconscious already knew the answer and was just trying to alert her. 

Her gaze landed upon a long, golden shaft of light. It appeared to lead directly to heaven, for it was majestic. It invited her to turn her head to once more stare wistfully out the window in their room. One shaft diffused into the millions of others, painting the sky almost white in their shining splendor, painful to look at but entrancing nonetheless. How she wished to be free!

Free like a bird, the sun's rays warming her back as she flew- flew. Flew. 

Volante meant to fly. 

"How will we accomplish that?" She demanded. Skeptical, not wanting to get her hopes up, already hurt because it would be perfect if it were possible, but it wasn't. 

But it was. 

Bach smiled mysteriously. Some would describe it as wisely, but she knew he wasn't wise, just a genius. Taking one last bite of sustenance from the palm of his hand, he began explaining his plan. 

He'd been collecting feathers and sealing them together with wax with the explicit purpose of creating colossal wings. He intended to use twine as a harness to attach the wings to himself and Tchaikovsky. Then they'd soar away to safety, away from the tower and the king that had locked them in it. "Festoso."

"It sounds like a fairytale..." she murmured dreamily. She couldn't wait for his project to be completed. 

/

Liszt startled Bądarzewska. 

The young goddess had been perched at her own window, twirling a lock of her dark brown hair around her finger while illuminating the Earth. Completely absorbed in a scene unfolding before her (or, erm, beneath her), she failed to take notice of the older goddess waltzing up to her. 

"It's love!" Liszt sang. Her voice rang out and washed over Bądarzewska so powerfully that she was almost convinced. It was only when Liszt finished her spinning that Bąda's metaphorical rose-colored glasses slipped off her nose and she was able to regain her bearings. 

"Please, all I know about her is that she is trapped, quick to anger, has simple tastes, and is enamored with a man. Your idea of love is twisted." She shot back, apparently having been hit in a sore spot. Being curious about a mortal meant nothing to anyone except the tall, beautiful woman with a flair for the dramatic.

And a penchant for annoying those who entertained crushes. Regardless of whether or not those anonymous characters admitted the nature of their curiosities, that is to say, crushes. 

Liszt was not discouraged by the opinion that her idea of love was twisted. She'd heard plenty of opinions in her day and had taught herself the fine art of not giving a damn. This posture she held not out of vanity, solely out of experience, as she emerged victorious in disagreements stemming from her domain- her domain being passion. 

"Bąda, you have spent most of your days sitting here admiring that girl. I dare say the sunsets and sunrises have been lovelier than usual, have they not? I go as far as to suggest you do it to impress her. Ah, there you go, blushing as red as the clouds you paint. It's because you know I'm right."

She expertly dodged the swift kick aimed at her torso. She stopped momentarily to admire the smooth, milky, slender leg executing the act of such undignified violence before continuing her monologue, entirely unaffected. 

"It's the most wondrous feeling on both the mortals' land and paradise alike! Embrace it and you shall rule! Conquer her heart! It's your destiny!" Theatrical, sensational, absolutely persistent. All these qualities were classic ones of hers. She wasn't quite sure she even believed everything she was exclaiming, but from she very depths of her soul she _wanted_ to. 

The goddess of warmth flung a scalding fluorescent beam at the goddess of passion. Funny how she presented herself as dainty, shy, merciful, proper. Funny how she was all of those things superficially but she couldn't take being teased (despite the fact that she dished it out)- she was pretty bratty.

Funny how she'd flushed a deep red, could hear her blood pounding in her ears and could feel her muscles start to juggle her internal organs, making her queasy. 

"If it's my destiny, then it will come to be without any prompting on my part. Let's leave it at that." She said, inviting a comprise. 

While her choice to reconcile was ironic, consider she herself has blown the amicable ribbing out of proportion, it was a route one who knew her well enough would have expected her to take. Her wild confrontational side was kept in check by the disposition of a peacemaker. 

"Have I gone too far? Darling..." Liszt soothed, all at once becoming soft and familiar, close and motherly. Her hand gently caressed Bądarzewska's face, butterfly-like in its lightness and airiness. The skin beneath it could've scorched her, so frazzled its owner was. "Talk to me, sweetheart." 

"She is trapped, you see, for she never leaves the tower, but when she yearns for freedom she stands at her window and stares up at me. Sometimes I convince myself we're making eye contact. Of course we aren't, she can't truly even see me. She couldn't tell you my eye color."

"That's not the end of the world, just go make one of your divine appearances before her!" Liszt encouraged. 

"I ought not to, but aside from that, she is in love with a man." 

The blonde choked back a squeal.

Love? She loved love.

She merely didn't appreciate it in its entirety when it was jeopardizing her friend's felicity. 

Love under such specific circumstances? She hated love. 

Thus she didn't squeal, she became somber and grey. "How do you know?"

"Why, how don't I know? Every interaction is a piece in a puzzle, though I'll spell it out for you since you haven't been looking. They eat and sleep together, they converse is a strange tongue only they can understand, they sit side by side when there is silence. And he is preparing a present for her, I'm certain of it from his mannerisms." 

She plainly knew more about Tchaikovsky than she had originally let on. Poor thing seemed to be rather obsessed. "Tch." Was all Liszt could bring herself to utter, before enveloping the other young woman in a hug.

She was so tall and so ample in certain areas (really, it was just stretches of ampleness) that her hugs were otherworldly. She was silky to the touch, she was supple and willowy and elastic and wholly surrounding Bąda, who had done everything but melt into the euphorically pleasant moment of physical comfort. 

"She loves him, it is true, but it may not be romantic." The goddess spoke to the chocolate-colored mane she could see peeking out from between her... ampleness. amplenesses?

"I'm the expert here. I say you have a chance." 

Bąda spoke a shaky and uncertain word of gratitude prior to pulling the sunlight behind some clouds. Today would not be merry. 

/

Once upon a time, there was a prodigy. He was born into a realm of kings and magic, gods and monsters. Born in a coastal village on the mainland. Born rowing-distance from The Island. 

The Island, capitalized just so, was how Tchaikovsky referred to the place. She could never keep the disgust and scorn out of her voice.

The prodigy was skilled at several tasks. He was a musician, an engineer, an architect, a writer. He rowed across wine-dark waters to do as the islander monarch bade: to construct a labyrinth, impossible to navigate, serving to contain a most dreadful beast. 

With a "Fine" pronounced, it was done. Pardon the redundancy, for "fine" is the Italian term marking an end. 

"Doloroso, lugubre." 

Words to indicate sorrow and loss. 

A prince was able to get in and out, slay the creature, then run away with the princess. The foolish inventor had had a hand in the debacle, he must have had a hand in it. His assistance would be punished. 

He would remain locked in a tower, him and his adopted daughter, 'til time ended or at the very least until both of them bit the grey, grimy dust. 

Tchaikovsky glared out the glass pane, eyes sore and mouth pinched tight. She'd spent two whole days waiting for Bach's master plan to be finalized, she was itching to be out of the cramped room so badly that she's considered launching herself out without the blasted wings.

In a story, in a myth, she wouldn't splatter on the jagged rocks. The breeze would whistle in her ears and tousle her hair but eventually catch her, hold her. And she'd soar around the heavens, she'd soar through miles of colorful glowing light, endless sparkling air. She herself would be radiant and bioluminescent and maybe even beyond physical form. 

Bach snatched her from her little fantasy. "Possible! Libremente volante!" He cried. To get him to raise his volume was, to her knowledge, bordering on impossible. She registered his loudness before the words themselves, thus knew immediately, no internal deliberation required, that he'd succeeded. 

The first part that showed she'd registered what he'd said were her eyebrows, which zoomed upwards. Then she smiled, smiled so broadly it made her cheeks ache. She squawked a bit (not her proudest moment), or maybe it was more of a squeak. 

She jumped with joy, her pretty blue robes fluttering around her. "I can't believe it, old man! You did it! You really did!" 

She rushed forward and grasped his hands, her grip surprisingly aggressive. She was a strong kid, that one. Bold and fit, a terrifying combination. She yanked him forward, her feet still moving so quickly they appeared to be everywhere at once, fluidly and nimbly sliding over the floor. 

Next she pulled Bach to the side and it was only them that the rhythm revealed itself to him, how she flowed, no, _sailed _in a new direction at a 3/4 tempo. They were dancing! They were celebrating his immense achievement and their newfound liberty and by Jove they were waltzing.__

__He normally wouldn't have gone along with such a silly endeavor but he had a soft-spot for Tchaiko. Besides, no one could see them. He supposed that after all that time residing under lock and key, a party was called for._ _

__/_ _

__Bądarzewska was considerably staggered._ _

__There were some things she expected to behold beneath her heavenly throne._ _

__What looked like unicorn vomit but was actually just the stupefying amount of sparkles the ripples of the ocean's waves could throw. Seagulls unceremoniously plucking varying species of fish out of said waves. Large white pieces of cloth whose inflation lead ships onwards to their respective voyages. Cleaners scurrying around like ants on the roof of the king's palace._ _

__There were some things she didn't really expect to behold beneath her heavenly throne, yet had seen nonetheless. As a being dwelling in the clouds, she had quite the assortment of these._ _

__Most recently, the commission of a convoluted, baroque maze to confine a hideous monster, and the subsequent arrest of the draftsman behind it. Though even prior to that paradoxical event, there'd been plenty._ _

__There were acrobats who swung through the horns of charging bulls, high priestesses shapeshifting into serpents, the oracle getting inebriated at a gathering and revealing every scandalous affair in the room._ _

__She jocularly recalled the case of the titanic turtle invasion._ _

__There were things which, if asked to bet on the likelihood of seeing them in her immortal lifetime, would cost her every single coin in her possession, not to mention her temples and statues and dresses._ _

__A short human maiden with properly-proportioned wings made from feathers and wax strapped to her figure was one of these._ _

__However, existing beyond the expectations of the deity, Tchaikovsky ascended. It was the most thrilling experience of her entire life. The lack of proper oxygen was dizzying, the high velocity winds brought tears to her eyes, the view was the most magnificent she'd ever appreciated, she was positively high on adrenaline and elation._ _

__Peculiarly, she felt no icy fear. The queerest sensation that she was being protected invaded her mind._ _

__At the very least, it was agreeable to be as she was and where she was. Her quarters in the king's tower has been chilly and damp and eerie. Now scalding heat pierced through her clothes and grazed her shoulder blades in the form of fleeting coziness, summery balminess. She continued her ascent to keep feeling safe, keep feeling the sun's sultry kisses on her spine._ _

__No! What was she thinking? She'd been given concise indications on precisely how she was supposed to soar. Tchaikovsky sucked in her cheeks in irritation at herself._ _

__"Attacca." To continue straight on._ _

__"Mezzoforte." Literally it meant not too loudly, not too softly. Don't fly too high or too low, fly in the middle._ _

__"Moderato. Glissando."_ _

__Such was her challenge, lest the wax holding her aerial suspension together melt and send her tumbling into the abyss of the sea. The other danger was the very Aegean itself, for if she stooped too close, its spray would dissolve the wax._ _

__Tchaiko adjusted her course. Just the slightest angle change could have her swooping entirely elsewhere. It was wild, for want of a better adjective. She plunged towards a more suitable trajectory._ _

__Bądarzewska bit back a mewl._ _

__There was another thing that stupefied her. The pain she went through at the mere retreat of her crush's silhouette._ _

__Perhaps she'd been observing under the influence of Liszt's inane "fate" theories. That explained her disappointment when nothing came of the barely-even-an-encounter._ _

__Should a world as Liszt had describe exist, it would be perfect but utterly maddening. People would be born with silver spoons sitting atop their tongues and gorgeous youths would fall into their laps and souls in the blink of an eye. Not just any eye, either, a mesmerizingly enchanting one with long, curled eyelashes._ _

__Destiny would cavort into her life._ _

__Except, well, it wasn't happening._ _

__Did she really need to work for it? Would it actually suit someone of her station to beg? To plead? To seduce?_ _

__Bądarzewska discovered she could not help herself. "Girl," she began mellifluously. The charm oozing from her tone was tangible. Her voice was smooth like syrup, thick like cream, saccharine. "The beautiful blue-eyed one." She specified._ _

__Tchaikovsky tried her hardest to ignore the siren's call. Bąda did not appreciate being ignored, hated it in fact. Her worst tantrums came from the night devouring her spotlight, from worshippers moving on to others, from her power being overlooked._ _

__"I command you to regard me!"_ _

__Tchaiko tilted back her chin, feeling her face begin to sweat. The climate was getting toastier. Was she drawing nearer without meaning to?_ _

__Finally she finished tilting and was able to see a person hanging in the sky, except unlike herself, this one was floating with no external assistance. And then she spoke. "Aren't you going to join me? Few can resist me, you know."_ _

__An invitation from a god? That was crazy. Without a doubt it was erratically, absurdly, ludicrously bonkers. Bananas._ _

__Tchaiko resisted the overwhelming urge to fire something snarky at the vain wench. Instead, she took to flattering herself. A holy being had deemed her worthy of her attention!_ _

__Besides, the holy being seemed to be the one in charge of bringing forth her consolation in dark times. She represented light and warmth. She was everything that had gotten her through her most difficult days, and was that which shielded her now. Filled her with the impression of being snug and home._ _

__"If I'm to join you, then it'll be of my own volition and not because you had any say in it!" She settled her confusing thoughts by shouting something equally nonsensical (after she was requested to join, obedience was not exactly free will), yet it satisfied the goddess._ _

__"You don't really mean that, but I like your spunk. I hope you keep your tongue in check around me in the future, though." The goddess spoke contradicting words as well._ _

__"You can't tell me what to do. Just because I look young doesn't mean I don't make my own decisions for myself."_ _

__"I never implied you didn't, though really everyone is subservient to someone else, save for a select few. I myself happen to- what are you dripping?" Bąda suddenly interrupted their banter, her face going pale with horror._ _

__Tchaikovsky tensed up. She hadn't been drooling, had she? That would've been so humiliating. But she wasn't, she was parched for that matter, and it wasn't like the incarnation of a celestial body was THAT ravishing, either._ _

__Shit._ _

__She was dripping from the pinions, which meant the adhesive material was melting. She was going to die, wasn't she? She was too young to die._ _

__There were so many things she hadn't gotten to do yet. All the ardor in her system was harshly thrown out._ _

__It was as though a fist of ice had clenched her heart and torn it out of her chest, as though needles had injected sheer, frigid terror into her bloodstream, and shrouded her vision so that she couldn't see straight for the world was blurry, messy, hideous, spinning, red._ _

__She opened her mouth to screech._ _

__No sound came out, she was choking on air as she fall harder and faster than she could even process._ _

__The tears had slipped down her cheeks before they were washed away in the violent crash of her face against the unforgiving tide. She surged through the liquid, sinking quickly, quickly like the brief seconds leading to the whole disaster had been. The impact had already crippled her, she was half-dead, doomed, before she choked on the salty drink._ _

__Bądarzewska hadn't been able to do anything. It happened too quickly. She scarcely felt a tingle of grief, a passing flicker akin to guilt, but she was mostly unable to come to terms with the transpired._ _

__At least, not for another full second._ _

__It was only then that paradise itself was rocked by the force of her wails._ _

__/_ _

__The ocean's wintriness stung Bądarzewska's shaking hands as she plunged them in, carelessly flinging herself forward as though she were a pebble being tossed back to the stony paths that lead to the marketplace._ _

__She was positively gelid by the time the ripples nipped her shoulder- rather, they bit her shoulder, arctic fangs perforating her to the bone. She grasped at nothing but fluid. There was no human limb to snatch, no fabric to jerk, hair to wrench._ _

__Her face would be submerged soon if she went any deeper. Her arms were already going numb._ _

__Her feet, until then dangling above her head, in the end, swung forcefully as she kicked herself into a dive. The cold, the darkness, it was suffocating and unfamiliar and detestable. She squeezed her eyes shut and kept blindly reaching into the deep, uncharted, vaguely terrifying, obscure abyss._ _

__She was determined to swim to the bottom of the wet, bottomless chasm if that's what it took._ _

__After what seemed like forever but couldn't have been more than a full minute, her fingertips finally bumped into something springy and plush and downy and petal-like. Slick, taut, gossamer, squishy. Skin. A person._ _

__Oh, praise the entire fucking pantheon of her ilk, hail her sublime brood._ _

__Tchaikovsky had been found._ _

__Bąda pulled her to the surface as ceremoniously as possible. Her smugness, her flair didn't last. Her hopes of saving the young girl were cruelly dashed when she realized that the chest lay out before her no longer rose and fell, Tchaikovsky's nostrils no longer trembled with her breathing._ _

__Bąda cupped the maid's cheek in her hand, ran her thumb over her high, handsome cheekbone, her blonde, un-plucked eyebrows, her full, tantalizing lower lip._ _

__There was dried blood below her nose and splayed over her forehead. The collision had been brutal for Tchaiko._ _

__Her enchanting blue eyes were open. Frozen in them was a look of sheer terror. The goddess could've swum in them, had she not already been drenched and dripping and immersed in water. Really she should've moved on to the shore, instead of allowing herself to stay bobbing on the tidal ebb and flow._ _

__However, she couldn't force herself to budge, not even an inch, until her problem had been solved. She tugged at the corpse almost petulantly. "We weren't done." She mewled, a whine creeping into it. No. She had to control herself. She was too powerful to be defeated by something as trivial as death._ _

__Her grip strengthened. She stilled the whirlwind of thoughts that were distracting her. She tried to channel energy through her palms._ _

__The seconds did not seem to pass. They ran not, nor did they jog, walk. They sauntered, wandered, promenaded, teased. Time itself appeared to be smirking before Bądarzewska. The spell leaked from her fist, all too slowly. A breath was caught in her throat._ _

__She was shaking. She was fearful and cold and blameworthy and remorseful and shaking. She held her head high and continued pouring her legerdemain into the deceased object of her affections. Surely if she didn't bow her head, the incantation would work._ _

__She bowed her head._ _

__She brought her visage down to Tchaikovsky's ear, sinking her chin into the blue briny._ _

__"Please." She whispered._ _

__"Wake up." She begged._ _

__A spark and a sparkle later, the cadaver's features twisted into surprise and confusion. Vitality brought colors forth, zest started running in her veins again._ _

__"Holy being... you're the sun, aren't you? Is this the afterlife? Why is most of me underwater?" She managed to gasp, all too quickly and defensively and tempestuously and characteristically her._ _

__The sun grinned. "I am, indeed. How kind of you to notice." Her voice shook._ _

__"You're- of course this isn't the afterlife, it's dreadful here. I brought you back, you silly, ungrateful girl. We should get you out of the water. You don't want to come down with pneumonia."_ _

__She secured her arms around Tchaikovsky's waist and shot into the sky. There was a loud scream, though if t was because throwing oneself upwards was unexpected or petrifying, the sun could not tell. Both were plausible._ _

__Tchaikovsky's amorphous shape had corrected itself, her bones were no longer broken and her cells were back at work. She looked... illustrious. As though being brought back to life had made her all the more fetching. If only she weren't wearing that unrelenting scowl._ _

__"Did you kill me? Did you kill me only to bring me back and call me ungrateful?" She demanded._ _

__Bądarzewska took the bait. After all, she loved the quarreling. "You are ungrateful, we need to work on your manners if you're to remain by my side."_ _

__Tchaiko hesitated. "What? Your side? Who agreed to that? You want that for yourself? Why did you bring me back?" The words were ammunition. The string of sentences was verbal assault._ _

__"I brought you back because I've finally found someone more childish than myself. I do think the two of us could have fun together, make the entire world ours, don't you think?" Bądarzewska inquired with a mischievous gleam._ _

__"Are you... are you fucking flirting with me? You're crazy. You know that, right?"_ _

__"Says the ex-mortal who agreed to attempt flight, when no mortal has ever been able to achieve it."_ _

__"I know I'm crazy, that has nothing to do with you being so. In fact, you should know right now that I'm mad: impulsive, spur-of-the-moment, adventurous mad. Am I the person you want to spend eternity with?" She challenged._ _

__If the goddess agreed, she'd scored a partner. If she was rejected, she'd be free to do whatever she pleased as a divinity herself. Either way, she couldn't lose._ _

__"Yes. You are. I'm more convinced than ever before."_ _

__"Sappy."_ _

__"I'm regretting everything."_ _

__"I love you, too."_ _

__Bąda started. It was only when the short phrase jolted her, sent electricity running through her, that she remembered why she had believed the two of them would never work out. "What of the man? The man you love, the inventor?"_ _

__Tchaiko laughed. "That old fart, my dad? I don't think he could kiss me as sweetly as a youthful, foxy, adorable goddess, could he?"_ _

__Her laughter was quickly smothered by confirmation._ _

**Author's Note:**

> No proof reading we publish our crap like men. I'm sorry the ending is rushed. I got highkey lazy. As in the original myth, Bach was supposed to construct a temple to Bąda (then I was gonna make her visit it w her celestial wife, oh well).


End file.
